


Still Waters

by obfuscatress



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), SPECTRE (2015)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Mild Angst, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-29 01:26:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6353422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They have different ways of welcoming one another home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Waters

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [home (where the heart is)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5839660) by [isthisrubble](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isthisrubble/pseuds/isthisrubble). 



**Bond**

He rarely comes home at a reasonable time of the day, but when he does it is to find his freshly washed and polished Aston Martin waiting in Heathrow’s designated Arrivals pick-up area. It’s five pm London time, still morning where he’s coming from, but the blanket of grey covering everything hardly makes it seem like day anymore. An hour ago the world was sunny, suspended in a place without time and temperamental weather. Then the seatbelt light went on and here he is, carrying a suitcase with more guns than clothes in it.

Madeleine gets out of the car to wave at him and coming home to someone still seems like the most bizarre thing in the world. Twenty years of cabs, one way tube tickets, and company cars switched out for waiting arms. She leans against the car - trench coat, sunglasses, tiny smirk, and all the other strange things he didn’t know he’d missed - as he puts the carry-on in the boot and comes around to the front.

“Welcome home,” she says unceremoniously. It is not said with a smile or any particular kind of warmth, but Bond knows she still means it with as much sincerity as the first time.

They pull out into traffic and the windshield wipers swipe away drizzle every so often. “Can’t say I’ve missed it,” he says.

At that Madeleine does smile. “Do you ever miss anything? Here you complain about the rain, there you complain about the heat or the snow or the hurricane.”

“You’re honestly going to complain about the hurricane?”

“No, I am just saying.”

“For what it’s worth, I did miss you.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll give this to Q: you really are a soppy, old romantic.”

Bond raises a curious eyebrow, because he’s never heard Q speak a word of his seductive powers save for being mocked over a comm with half his branch as witnesses to their half flirtatious bickering. “Now, I’ll believe he’s called me old, but _a romantic_? Never.”

“I’d tell you to ask him, but I’m afraid he might be a bit out of it.”

She tilts her head towards the backseat and Bond glances up into the rearview mirror to see Q fast asleep. He’s still in his parka with his glasses askew and digging into the bridge of his nose in a way that seems rather uncomfortable. Bond would suspect Madeleine spiked his tea - she’s been known to do that, after all - but he’s sprawled all over the backseat with two seat belts draped criss cross over his torso, more suggestive of him finally having worked himself onto the brink of exhaustion. They stop at a red light and Q’s unconscious body jerks gently with one of his arms slipping over the edge of the bench. Bond never expected to find it so endearing.

“Please think quieter; your lovesick look is making me nauseous,” Madeleine jokes and Bond doesn’t quite have the energy to smile at her.

He lets his head tilt towards the window and rests his throbbing temple against the cool glass. Madeleine turns on the radio, switches the channel to world news, and waits for the gentle voice of the host to lull him to sleep.

 

* * *

 

The jet lag only hits him later that night, when Madeleine goes to sleep and his body and mind refuse to settle on a common clock. It’s two am and the world is quiet save for Q’s languid typing from the sofa. Even the cats doze peacefully. It ought to be the epitome of tranquility, but all Bond is left with is agitation and exhaustion keeping him awake against his own will.

“Will you stop thinking so loudly?” Q asks and glances up from his screen for the first time in two hours. He looks as tired as Bond feels: hair mussed up and flattened out all at once, blanket pooling around his shoulders, and bloodshot eyes burning behind his glasses.

“I’m practically comatose. How on earth could I bother you?"

“You’re stressed,” Q says, “I can feel it.”

Bond blunders. He isn’t used to hearing those words, to be evaluated without permission. At least on the job, even in the psych ward, he is aware of the constant scrutiny, always altering himself to pass unnoticed, but all that is forgotten at home. Q, of course, is used to reading people for the things they won’t say out loud, on and off the clock. Bond has to remind himself of this, of the fact that they choose to let their guards down and be vulnerable with one another, so he says: “I can’t sleep.”

“I know. Neither can I.”

“You look it.”

“As do you.”

“I guess we are as dysfunctional as ever then.”

“Speak for yourself,” Q says with a smile, “I’m conquering worlds over here.”

They take a moment each to collect themselves with their breathing slowly synching up. Bond quirks a smile of his own - the lopsided affair that’s barely there but means the world to Madeleine and Q.

“Could I have one of your sleeping pills?” he asks, “Just this once.”

Q’s hands still for a delicate few moments before he says: “This once.”

Q pours him a glass of water and hands over a single pill from a carefully accounted for, electronically regulated stash he has used to regulate his erratic sleeping patterns for the entirety of his adult life. The metal abomination has slotted itself between the kettle and the microwave to become a flawless part of Bond’s kitchen much in the same way Q has.

Bond swallows the pill and mutters a quiet ‘thank you’.

“Off to bed with you then.”

“And you?”

Q quirks an eyebrow. “What about me?”

“You should come too. To rest your eyes, if nothing else.”

“Bond-”

“There has to be something to help you.”

“There is,” Q says, “It helps knowing you’re here and you’re safe.” He chews on his lip like he’s unsure of himself, but seems to decide it’s worth saying, “I worry. It’s not something I can shake.”

“I don’t want you to either,” Bond hurries to say, “Sometimes I think of you and Madeleine here, waiting, and it scares me so much it keeps me alive. I need you to need me, because I _need_ you.”

“That is, without a shadow of a doubt, the most disgusting admission of love that has ever come out of your mouth.”

“Does this mean you’ll come to bed?”

Q sighs and shakes his head, but says, “Yes,” anyway.

They end up on the half of the bed Madeleine hasn’t claimed as her own, Q sat cross legged against the headboard with a pillow and Bond’s head in his lap. He doesn’t sleep, but Bond does, snoring away quietly in the dark.

  


**Q**

It starts out simple enough,  a brief hesitation when he sees there’s coleslaw and fish for lunch, but the churn of his stomach is more than hunger induced nausea. Q should have realised that. After all, this is not the first migraine he’s had. It does, however, happen to be the first time he’s out of medication, an empty metal foil with six dents sitting in the little box of personal effects he keeps in the bottom drawer of his desk next to a bottle of unopened Macallan Bond bought him as a Christmas present the other year.

The alcohol won’t help either, though it does remind him why he’s out of meds: namely Bond sweet talking him out of a fit of rage over a demolished motor cycle. Q told him he’d never give the man a vehicle again then, which, of course, was a blatant lie and in the midst of it Q must’ve popped a migraine blocker without realising it was the last one he had.

“R,” he says miserably, because his brain spasming out is not something he can combat, “could you order a car for me? I think I will be heading home for the night.”

“Of course, sir,” his second in command replies. She looks worried, though she doesn’t say anything and Q is grateful for that. He intended to make it an early night anyway, what with Bond and Madeleine being home at the same time for once, but three thirty is too early even by his standards.

Q packs his things and texts Bond he’s coming home early. The car ride is nauseating and he can’t even keep his eyes open, because the sun decides to be out on the one day he can’t stand bright light. Bond’s house on Notting Hill is glaringly white with the afternoon sun on it and Q nearly throws up when he climbs out of the car. In the upstairs window he can see Madeleine moving about, laughing at something, and his heart clenches. After all, he’s ruined their night now and Bond has to leave again come morning. He feels even worse when he steps through the door to witness the way the smile falls off Madeleine’s face.

“Mon dieu, what happened? You look awful.” She is at his side in an instant, pushing the cat away and shutting the door, running her fingers through his hair, resting a hand against his forehead to gauge his temperature.

“It’s just a migraine,” Q says, “I ran out of medication.”

He’s vaguely aware the radio is on in the kitchen and that Madeleine is peeling his parka off of him. She says, “There’s a spare pack in the kitchen cabinet,” in her gentlest voice and Q doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve her.

“But how?”

“Because you work too hard and never remember to go to the pharmacy.”

“Thank you,” he says and his eyes aren’t watering, but it’s a close thing.

“No problem. Now, how about you take a shower while I make sure the bedroom is nice and dark so you can take a nap until the meds kick in?”

Q nods and steps out of his shoes. “Okay,” he says, nods again, and lets himself be pushed towards the bathroom.

Madeleine is kind enough to undress him with the lights off and adjust the temperature of the shower. Q washes his hair in the dark, trying to focus on breathing and the feeling of warm steam on his skin. The door creaks halfway through his shower to shine a strip of light into the room, but closes again in a matter of seconds. When he steps out of the shower he finds a clean towel on the toilet lid and a glass of water and a pill on the counter top.

In the bedroom, Madeleine has fluffed up all the pillows and closed the curtains, so it’s blissfully still. Q swallows down a pain riddled love confession and crawls under the blankets. She motions for him to lift his head for her to slide a towel under his damp hair. “Is this okay?” Madeleine asks eventually, satisfied with her own fussing over him.

“Yes, more than.”

“Good.” She sits down on the edge of the bed to put a cool rag on his forehead and press a kiss to his temple.

Q revels in her touch, but every time the waves of pain ease up he feels guilty. “I’m sorry for ruining our night.”

“Don’t be silly. You’re ill.”

“And I won’t be much fun. You and Bond should still go out.”

“Nonsense. We’ll have a quiet night in with our favourite brainiac.”

She smiles and Q has to admit it’s convincing.

“Where even is he?”

“Out for a run. You know how he is about his exercise regimen. But don’t you worry about that. Sleep for a little and we’ll see how you feel after, alright?”

Q nods and burrows further down into a nest of Bond’s ridiculous down pillows and blankets all covered in Egyptian cotton with a thread count of 800.

The bed dips when Madeleine gets up. “Do you want me to take the cats out of the room?”

“No, it’ll only upset them unnecessarily.”

He already has his eyes closed by the time she says, “I’ll come wake you at seven.” Q hums quietly in agreement, already slipping into unconsciousness. On his chest, someone starts to purr.

 

* * *

 

As promised, he is awoken at seven to the smell of stir fry and the feeling of Madeleine peeling the rag off his forehead. He has one cat curled up at his feet, though the other has disappeared, most likely in pursuit of food. Not that Q can blame her. His stomach rumbles and he’s not entirely sure if it’s hunger or nausea, but at least the thought of food isn’t off putting and his brain has stopped trying to hammer its way out of his skull.

“Feeling better?” Madeleine whispers. All Q can manage is a sound between a groan and a mumbled ‘yeah’, but it’s enough to convince her to help him up.

He has half a mind to put on a pair of pyjamas and attempt to tame his hair before he steps out into the living room. It’s nearly dark outside and much to his relief the flat is only lit by a few soft lamps. Bond is in the kitchen, seemingly trapped between cooking dinner and living up to the cat’s feeding demands.

“Nice to see our resident toddler has decided to get up from his afternoon nap.”

“Nice to see you’re still an arse, as always, gramps,” Q says and clambers onto one of the bar stools in Bond’s quite frankly ridiculous kitchen.

“Nice to know you two will always regress to be moronic children, if left to your own devices,” Madeleine cuts in and carries a disgruntled Artemis and her bowl out of the kitchen.

Q rests his head on the counter top, unconcerned with the tyranny of his cat. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

Bond doesn’t rise to the bait, though he makes a point of flipping the veggies so that for a few moments Q’s world explodes with the sound of hissing oil. When he lifts his head to glare at Bond, the man has the audacity to shrug innocently and ask, “How are you feeling?

“Less like like I’ve been hit by a truck and more like I’ve had a run in with a very inconsiderate biker.”

“Having experience with both of those, I can tell you the bike is worse.”

“Yes, thank you for that insight Bond. The difference is that the car you destroyed in the truck collision came out of my budget while the bones the biker broke were all yours.”

His headache flares up from the commotion and Q groans miserably. In the bedroom something that’s clearly the bedside lamp clatters to the floor. A cat comes dashing out of the bedroom, Q drops his head back on the counter, and Bond bursts out laughing.

“Stop being a dick,” Madeleine tells Bond and comes to rub Q’s back. She coaxes him over to the sofa, away from the noise and the neon lights.

Bond joins them with three bowls of steaming stir fry and a sly smile. “I picked up one of those obscure Japanese flicks you love while I was over there,” he says and Q raises an eyebrow at him.

“I’m not sure if I should be offended by the implication of that sentence or endeared by the sentiment behind the gesture.”

“Knowing you, you can do both at once,” Madeleine comments. She is the first to reach for dinner and curl up in the armchair with Artemis sitting on top of the backrest. “Either way you two will have to share the sofa.”

Bond is quick to sprawl himself all over the leather abomination and Q would complain about not getting the armchair, but Bond offers him a blanket and if that isn’t love, Q doesn’t know what is. He shamelessly snuggles up against his agent and pulls the blanket over both of them while Bond reaches for their food.

They’re all half asleep by the time the movie is coming to an end and Q can’t say he regrets not going out, especially when he gets to sleep between two warm bodies that night.

 

  

**Madeleine**

She’s had a lifetime to get used to being lonely. Sure, there was the occasional boyfriend here and there to remind her what it felt like not to stand against an entire world on her own, but eventually that always fell to pieces, and so when she’d told James she wasn’t going to go back to this life she’d meant more than the secrecy, more than the guns, and the blood, and the non-specific guilt that came with it all, but she’d meant the attachment and the compromise of loving someone so broken. She didn’t want to turn into her own mother, didn’t want to live in her father’s shadow, and for so long it had seemed as though the only way out was to leave James. And then Q came along and she thought none of them would ever have to be alone again, because there were three of them now: floating quietly in still waters just waiting for the ground to drop out underneath. They had each other.

This is what she has convinced herself of, but Madeleine is not so sure of it now. Not when this is the fifth night in a row she’s coming home to an empty flat with the bed she’s made still untouched. It’s quiet and dark like every house she’s lived in and Madeleine is starting to doubt her choices in life. Someone has put a mug in the sink in her absence and Artemis must have been fed recently or she wouldn’t be soundly asleep upon Madeleine’s return. Whichever of her lovers it was, they are off again, presumably to save England. She’s too tired to think about it.

“Make some space for me,” she says to the cat even as she’s already lifting her off the sofa. Normally she wouldn’t lie with them in her work clothes, but today has been monumentally shit and she could just send the shirt away with Bond’s next batch of dry cleaning, so she lets Artemis sit on her. She mutters, “At least you are always here to scowl at me,” and closes her eyes.

There’s no food in, she knows that much, but can’t be arsed to move a bone. Q is out of Earl Grey; she’ll have to buy some once she manages to drag herself to the corner shop. Madeleine continues mentally rifling through the cupboards and make a list that she forgets every item off as soon as she adds them. It’s going on eight already by the time she is finished and has the energy to sit up and actually get to the task at hand.

As expected, the fridge is empty, and apparently whomever was home today used the last of the emergy instant coffee in the cupboard. Madeleine is halfway through making the shopping list, when the door sounds and she looks up to see both Q and Bond shuffling their way past the cats.

“Oh, you’re home,” Q says, fingers yellowing from the strain of carrying a dozen plastic bags and cheeks flushed from the cold spring air.

“Yes,” Madeleine says, perplexed by the fact that Bond seems to be carrying a massive bag of takeout cartons.

“We were rather hoping to be here before you,” he says, “to surprise you. We know we haven’t been around a lot lately.”

“So, we decided to do the shopping and get your favourite chinese while we’re at it,” Q adds. “It just took a little longer than expected.”

Not knowing what else to answer, Madeleine says, “Thank you,” and finds herself taken aback at how surprised she sounds.

“For what?”

“All this. I don’t know. I just… I thought I’d be home alone again and I- I don’t know, but thank you. I’m glad you’re home.”

“About that,” Bond says, “we’ve both got the weekend off and I was thinking we could nip down to Paris to make up for lost time. What do you say?”

She doesn’t get to answer before her stomach proclaims her hunger with a loud rumble.

“Right, maybe we’ll have dinner first. You can take some time to think about it,” Q suggests, dumping the groceries on the floor. “We’ll sort these out after as well.”

He smiles at her and Madeleine doesn’t know what to say, so she nods and chokes back tears. Artemis pushes against her leg and she is that reminded her fears are not reality, that she is loved and cherished in all honesty, even if it is by two professionally dishonest men. Madeleine takes a seat at the table and lets Q tell her all about a poison lipstick he’s been working on while Bond plates their food and pours them each a glass of wine.

On a whim, Q rifles through the kitchen cupboard for a candle and finds a half burned, dotted, waxy easter egg to substitute a taper candle. Madeleine is laughing at him, when Bond comes up behind her to set a vase of white peonies on the table. “For you,” he whispers and presses a quick kiss to her cheek, “They were out of the blue ones, I’m afraid.”

It’s the best shoddy attempt at romance anyone’s ever made for her. “They’re better this way,” she says and means it.

She may be used to to loneliness, to funerals with oceans of white flowers, but she can also get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for for reading :)
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at obfuscatress.tumblr.com


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